


Never Be Satisfied

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Distress and Disarray [28]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Feelings, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Rank Disparity, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 09:25:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18091724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which Washington wants things too.





	Never Be Satisfied

In the days that follow his supposed death, Washington becomes aware of a subtle shift in the tenuous balance between himself and Hamilton.

He’s at a loss to articulate precisely _what_ has changed. Hamilton is as obstinate, as noisome, as stubbornly underfoot as always. Perhaps he is even more present than before—there are days it feels like Washington needs only _think_ about Hamilton and his boy will appear with startling alacrity—but how can Washington blame him under the circumstances?

Alexander thought he was dead. Washington doesn't want to imagine how poorly he would have coped if their positions had been reversed. What might he have done, if _he_ had been the one safely aboard ship, and his boy missing and presumed dead?

There's no doubt in his mind that Church would have taken command from him. He certainly would've been in no condition to lead.

The thought should be a sobering call back to reality. A general has no business endangering his ship and crew. But now, as before, Washington is incapable of removing himself from the situation. He will not leave the Nelson, and he is even more determined that he will not send Hamilton away. Even if he were not utterly compromised, Washington would be unwilling to waste such incredible potential.

Alexander Hamilton is one of the most promising young officers Washington has ever seen. The best to cross his path since Angelica Church first joined his crew, and easily as ambitious.

Washington _will not_ jeopardize the path Hamilton has carved for himself through the ranks of Starfleet.

They haven't discussed the night Hamilton spent in his bed. Even the very next day, as they went about a surreal approximation of their respective morning routines, neither of them said a word about waking in each other's arms. Or about the unreadable look in Hamilton’s eyes—the moment Washington was certain Hamilton would kiss him—the fact that, just this once, Washington might have allowed it.

Hamilton _did not_ kiss him. And Washington refuses to acknowledge the disappointment he's been carrying ever since.

Tonight is like any other. There is a sizable gathering in the officers mess, Washington and Hamilton and their habitual chess game right at the center. An easy sense of community permeates the room, surrounding them with laughter and mischievous energy.

Hamilton is subdued. Attentive but serious, offering only acknowledging smiles when the ebb and flow of conversation demands a response. The rest of the time, his eyes are entirely for Washington, watchful and piercing.

The heavy focus makes it difficult to put sincere effort into the game of chess between them.

Usually it’s Washington who retires first for the night, leaving his crew to their games, leaving Hamilton among friends with little more than a parting nod. But tonight Hamilton rises first, even before their first match is complete.

“I’m sorry, sir.” Hamilton’s tone is earnest, his shoulders slumped with what might be fatigue. “I’m not up to finishing the game. Maybe someone else can step in.”

Washington blinks up at him, trying very hard not to broadcast his surprise. “Goodnight, Colonel.”

“Sir,” Hamilton acknowledges with a nod, then slips sideways through the raucous crowd.

Lafayette is the one to slide into the vacated seat, a smile on his lips and a sardonic eyebrow raised. Thankfully he's discreet enough to keep any commentary to himself amid the crowd. Washington's secret may be poorly concealed, but that’s no reason for carelessness.

They finish the game. It's no surprise Gil trounces him.

As soon as his king falls, Washington offers his own apologies, his own goodnights to the crew. He is half afraid Lafayette will retire alongside him, the better to ask prying questions. Washington finds interrogations distasteful even at his best, and he doesn't cherish the possibility. Whatever curiosities Lafayette might harbor, Washington has no idea how to answer them.

He can’t even seem to answer his own damn heart.

There is a moment, on exiting the turbolift, when he hesitates in the corridor. It would be so simple to reroute, and let his footsteps carry him to Hamilton’s quarters.

Never mind how tired he looked; Washington knows he will not be sleeping.

But if Washington goes to Hamilton now, he _will_ step out of line. All day—all damn week—he has been agonizingly aware of his boy’s proximity. There is a plea in the way Alexander looks at him, increasingly ill-concealed with every passing day. Tonight, primed and restless, Washington does not trust himself to refuse.

He returns to his own quarters. Locks his door. Removes his uniform and leaves his clothing scattered on the floor, then enters his private washroom and activates the sonic shower.

The vibrations feel good on his skin after a long day, washing away the tension of a long duty shift. There’s comfortable warmth, a sensation nothing at all like water, and yet it relaxes his muscles just as surely. Washington breathes in. Breathes out. Closes his eyes and braces his palms against the smooth, cool wall.

With his eyes closed, of course an image of Alexander flickers through his thoughts. His boy’s expressive face, clever eyes, sharp-edged smile. The narrow shoulders and thin frame, a stature so small compared to Washington’s. The shape of a lithe body beneath the efficient lines of a Starfleet uniform.

The sight of him, messy hair and bleary gaze, when Washington woke that morning beside him.

All of these are things Washington usually tries not to think about, but tonight feels different. Tonight he can’t seem to redirect, and the truth is he doesn’t want to. He _wants_ to let his mind linger—to think about his boy—here in the lonely privacy of his quarters, with no one to see or judge.

His cock is hard. And when he pictures Hamilton in his bed again, arousal rises even hotter beneath his skin. Possessiveness and a surge of hunger speed his pulse, and for once he doesn’t try to resist his instincts. He keeps his eyes closed and takes one hand off the wall, reaching down, fingers curling around his own rigid length. The touch makes him gasp. It feels damn good, and he draws the image of Hamilton to the forefront of his mind. He lets the image shift and distort, from memory to imagination, and when he is through he moans at the result.

Alexander on his knees. Uniform askew, face bright, hair loose and messy around his shoulders. An eloquent blush spreads across his cheeks and throat. His eyes are wide with arousal, his mouth ajar.

Washington gives himself a firm stroke, and in his mind he orders, _Open that beautiful mouth_.

Alexander immediately obeys, and Washington's brow furrows with concentration as he pictures it. Rolling his hips forward. Twining his fingers in soft hair. Feeding his cock into that willing mouth.

He strokes again, the dry slide of his palm just the right balance of discomfort and pleasure. The Alexander in his mind takes Washington deeper. Brown eyes flutter closed, and his jaw drops, his throat working around the head of Washington’s cock. A teasing swallow accompanied by a wet, filthy sound.

Gorgeous and absolutely perfect. Washington’s breath hitches, and he moves his hand faster. Imagines Alexander gripping his thighs, his hips, holding on as Washington’s cock slides farther down his throat.

Washington moans and tightens his grip. He imagines the tight ripple of muscle, another reflexive swallow. Then Alexander’s eyes blink open and find his face. Expressive. Affectionate. A delightful vision of things Washington is not allowed to have.

It’s so brief a fantasy, and yet this is all it takes to carry him over the edge. He comes hard, slicking his fingers and the shower wall. Groaning low and helpless as his orgasm crests and spins through him, carrying him out of his own head and shattering the vivid fantasy.

When the physical pleasure fades, Washington is so alone he aches. He cleans himself up, deactivates the sonics, collects his scattered clothing from the floor of his quarters. With uncharacteristic lethargy, he dresses in clean sleepwear and slips between the cool sheets of his empty bed.

“Computer, lights,” he calls quietly, and his quarters fall dark.

Washington lies there, helpless to still his scattered thoughts. Equally helpless to dispel the conjured image of Hamilton on his knees.

The night is impossibly quiet, and for a very long time Washington does not sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompts: Commune, Alacrity, Wasted
> 
> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** , if you'd like to find me. (And have set up a **[Hamilton/Washington Community](https://whamilton.dreamwidth.org/)** over there, just a heads up to anyone who might be interested :)


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